


chasing those lies (you spend it all)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s01e11 The Magical Place, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma is summoned to the Hub three days into their team’s downtime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chasing those lies (you spend it all)

**Author's Note:**

> Funny story about this fic: I first thought up the premise a few days ago, but I couldn't decide between two very different ideas of where to take it, so I put it on the back-burner. Then I made the decision and started to write it yesterday--but only got a few paragraphs in before an off-hand line sparked a brand new idea. So I started a new fic, based on that and got like halfway through it before inspiration deserted me. Then I did a prompt meme on tumblr, and one of the prompts--"I can take care of the violence. After all, s/he only shot me once" in case you're wondering--reinspired me for this.
> 
> Writing is complicated, y'all.
> 
> Anyway, so yes. Apparently in addition to rock!fic, S1 mid-season hiatus!fic is going to be a thing I do a lot of this summer. There was _it's a beautiful place (you keep inside)_ , now this, and then the one I started yesterday, which (hopefully) will be along soon. (It was inspired by the line about Ward giving the team contact numbers, if you're curious.) Something to look forward to--or dread, I don't know your life.
> 
> Title is from OneRepublic's _Missing Persons 1 & 2_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma is summoned to the Hub three days into their team’s downtime.

It’s unexpected—she is, after all, technically on leave—but the order to report to the nerve center by 0900 is not a difficult one to obey. This is because while she is, technically, on leave, she hasn’t actually gone anywhere.

The Bus is grounded at the Hub for the moment, and therefore so is she.

It’s a surprise to arrive at the nerve center to find Ward waiting outside, however, as he was the first of the team to depart (though not before determining exactly where each of them would spending their holiday and providing them the number of a contact in the area, just in case they happen to find trouble).

“Simmons,” he greets.

“Hello, Ward,” she says. “I thought you left?”

“I did,” he says, and shrugs his good shoulder. “Got called back last night.”

“Hmm.” She frowns around the corridor. “I wonder if any of the others were called in? I know Fitz wasn’t; he would have mentioned.”

“I talked to Skye yesterday,” he offers. “She’s still in California.” He shakes his head, rueful. “And despite what she said, I’m pretty sure she’s not keeping up with her work-outs.”

She hides a smile, and is about to reply when the doors to the nerve center slide open to reveal Agent Hand.

“Agent Simmons, Agent Ward,” she says. “This way.”

She stalks away towards the large screen at the far end of the room without another word, and Jemma glances up at Ward.

He gives her a sideways frown. “If she tries to send you to South Ossetia, say no.”

She has to stifle a laugh, more at the fact that it’s Ward making the joke than the joke itself (it’s far too soon for that incident to have become amusing in hindsight), and his lips quirk a touch.

“After you,” he invites, motioning her forward, and she leads the way into the nerve center.

Jemma has never been in this part of the Hub before, though it’s essentially what she expected: work stations staffed by Communications agents, several large screens displaying maps and mission statuses, and terrified, awed looks from every agent Hand passes.

In fact, it’s so utterly predictable that it’s almost a let-down…which is a ridiculous thought to have. Perhaps she’s been spending too much time with Skye.

Hand doesn’t bother with pleasantries; as soon as Jemma and Ward reach the screen, she jumps straight to the point.

“Agent Simmons, you’ve officially waived your protocol-mandated leave, is that correct?” Hand asks.

“Yes,” she confirms, a touch confused. “I intend to use our downtime to examine the memory machine that Raina used on Agent Coulson.”

Hand ignores her. “And Agent Ward, you’ve done the same. I have your request for a temporary return to the specialist rotation—”

“Ward!” Jemma exclaims. He grimaces. “You said you were going on holiday!” She scowls at him. “You aren’t cleared for field work!”

“Thanks,” Ward says flatly to Hand, and then turns to Jemma. “Simmons, listen—”

“Your opinion is noted, Agent Simmons,” Hand says over him. “But it’s irrelevant.”

In Jemma’s peripheral vision, Ward’s fingers twitch. For a moment she thinks he’s about to reach for his sidearm—but that’s absurd, of course. Likely it’s just annoyed fidgeting; she knows he isn’t at all fond of Agent Hand.

“We need Agent Ward for an undercover mission,” Hand continues.

It’s never been in Jemma’s nature to argue with authority, but she’s grown accustomed to it over the last few months.

And this is _important_.

“Ma’am, I understand that Ward is highly skilled in espionage,” she says, “But there are other specialists, aren’t there? His injuries—”

“Are exactly why he’s perfect for this op,” Hand interrupts. She aims a remote at the screen behind her, and a photograph of a building appears. It’s one story, made of red brick and surrounded by trees, and looks perfectly non-threatening. “This is the Samuel Reyes Memorial VA Center. We have reason to believe that someone in this center is using alien technology on wounded veterans.” She hands Jemma a file folder. “Agent Simmons.”

Jemma flips through the folder, peripherally aware that Hand is providing further detail to Ward as she does so. Her own attention, however, is focused on the files she’s been handed: medical records charting the recovery of twelve separate individuals, whose injuries vary from gunshot wounds to lost limbs to third-degree burns.

At first, she’s not certain what’s caught SHIELD’s attention. To her—admittedly inexperienced—eye, it seems as though the injuries healed normally, if with surprisingly few complications.

Then she takes note of the dates on the records.

“I’m sorry,” she says, interrupting Ward in the middle of a question about—is he asking what sort of materials the VA Center is constructed from? He is so _odd_. “Agent Hand, this is—”

“Impossible?” Hand asks. “I agree. That’s why I’m sending in Agent Ward.”

“Simmons?” Ward asks. “What kind of impossible are we talking here?”

“Incredibly accelerated healing,” she says, flipping through the files again. “Look at this—a third-degree burn healed in barely a month! A man with a comminuted fracture to the patella was walking normally within five weeks!” She closes the folder and meets his eyes. “There is most certainly something odd happening.”

“The only common variable among those twelve cases is a weekly group therapy session at the VA Center,” Hand tells Ward. “We’ve already arranged for your cover to join it.”

He nods once. “Is my primary objective to identify the means of healing or the people behind it?”

“The latter.”

“Understood,” he says. “And—”

“No!” Jemma interrupts. “Ward, you are in no condition for field work!”

“Simmons,” he sighs. “I think I can handle sitting around in a circle talking about my feelings.”

She rather doubts that, actually, but his somewhat lacking social skills (though she’ll admit he’s improved greatly in the last few months) are not the main issue here.

“And if the situation becomes violent?” she asks. “You were shot by a sniper _last week_!”

“I can take care of the violence,” he promises. “After all, he only shot me once.”

…There is literally nothing she can say to that. He is _ridiculous_.

“You also have a fractured metacarpal,” she says flatly, and turns to Hand. “Ma’am—”

“Ward’s injuries are exactly what make him the best candidate for this mission,” Hand says. “And I assure you, Agent Simmons, he has faced far more dangerous situations in far worse condition than this.”

Jemma stares at her, utterly lost for words. Is that truly meant to be reassuring? Knowing that Ward has been at more risk (of _course_ he’s been at more risk, such as when this woman nearly got him killed a month ago) does nothing to make _this_ risk any less distressing.

“She’s right,” Ward says, gently prying the file folder out of her white-knuckled grip. “Trust me, Simmons, I know my limits. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she reminds him, frowning. “That’s precisely what you said before left on the raid to capture Vanchat and tore all of your stitches.”

“And what I said before I faced off against a Centipede soldier in the Mojave Desert,” he counters. “I made it through that one fine.”

“A fifty percent success rate is nothing to boast about,” she tells him.

He smiles slightly. “Better than a fifty percent failure rate.”

She rolls her eyes; his flashes of humor always occur at the least opportune times, and this hardly seems the moment. However, she knows when she’s lost—in the end, Hand outranks her, and Jemma isn’t even a proper physician. She doesn’t have the authority to overrule superior officers on medical grounds.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she orders.

“I promise,” Ward says, and then turns to face Hand. “What’s my cover?”

“You’ll be a recently retired Army Ranger,” she says. “The wound was incidental to your discharge; you were already set to retire when you were wounded in a skirmish outside Herat.” She smiles grimly. “Fortunately for us, one of your established covers serves our purposes nicely: Tyler Lynch.”

“Lynch?” Ward’s brow furrows. “But he’s—” His eyes cut to Jemma, widen, and then narrow. “No.”

“Excuse me?” Hand asks, tone distinctly ominous.

“With all due respect, ma’am,” he says, face set in a way she’s only ever seen Skye provoke, “Agent Simmons isn’t trained for—”

“Agent Simmons isn’t trained for a lot of things,” Hand interrupts, as Jemma glances between the two of them, confused. “Including field work. Yet she’s served admirably on your team—or so Agent Coulson has led me to believe.”

“I’m sorry,” Jemma says. “What have I to do with Ward’s cover?”

“Tyler Lynch is married,” he tells her.

It takes a moment for Jemma to process the implications of that—of her presence in this meeting—and then she turns to Hand so quickly she nearly makes herself dizzy.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You don’t mean to say that _I_ …?”

“Will be accompanying Ward undercover as his wife,” Hand confirms. “Yes.”

“Ma’am, I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” she says, a touch flustered. “And I’m very happy that you aren’t intending to send Ward in alone, but wouldn’t the position be better filled by someone with combat experience? Or—or the ability to lie?”

“Agent Ward’s role in this mission is to identify and contain the person or persons behind the incidents,” Hand says. “ _Your_ role will be to identify the technology or substance said culprits are utilizing—something which very few of our specialists are capable of doing.”

“Agent Hand—” Ward starts.

“I have full confidence in your ability to protect Agent Simmons, Agent Ward,” she says. “Now, unless the two of you have any further objections to offer, Agent Baylor is waiting for you in Logistics-7 to finalize the details of your cover.”

They do, in fact, both have further objections to offer, but they find themselves ushered out of the nerve center in short order nonetheless, and Jemma is left to blink up at Ward, blindsided.

“But…I can’t lie,” she says, a touch plaintively.

The glare he’s been aiming at the closed doors softens into a slight frown as he looks down at her, and he sighs.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

What a ridiculous question. “Of course.”

“Leave the lying to me.” He sets his hands on her shoulders, warm and comforting despite the splint, and angles his head to better meet her eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

The corridor’s harsh lighting does excellent things for his cheekbones, and it occurs to her quite randomly that if she’s to play the role of his wife, she’ll likely have to kiss him at some point. Perhaps even more than once.

How far will their cover go? They’ll be expected to live together, of course. Can they risk separate rooms? She’s been living with Ward for months and is certainly accustomed to _that_ , but sharing a bed with him would be entirely new.

Though not, she’s surprised to realize, entirely unwelcome.

Oh, dear. This is a very poor time for an epiphany.

“Simmons?” he prompts.

“I know you won’t,” she says, setting those thoughts aside for another time. (Never. Never is good.) “But you mustn’t let anything happen to yourself, either.” She lays her hand on his left arm, close enough to his injury to make her point but far enough that the pressure shouldn’t cause any pain. “I’ll be very cross if I have to give you any more stitches, Ward.”

“Noted,” he says, with one of his little half-smiles. He squeezes her shoulders once—she notes that there’s no discernable difference in pressure between right and left—and then lets his hands fall away. “Now, come on. The sooner you get started on memorizing your cover, the better.”

“Will there be a lot to memorize?” she asks, following him along the corridor. “I imagine your cover is fairly well developed, if you’ve used it before, but is his wife’s?”

“Not really,” he says. “Tyler’s a talkative guy, but he’s also private. Doesn’t share a lot of personal details.”

“That might be a problem in therapy.”

“Maybe,” he says, with a small smile. It fades quickly, however, and he comes to a sudden stop. “One thing. Well, two things.”

“Yes?” she asks.

“First of all…” He grimaces. “Tyler’s…” His eyes search the corridor, as though he expects someone to walk up and finish his sentence for him. “He’s not…a nice guy.”

Well. That’s concerning. “In what way?”

“Sarcastic, kind of violent,” he shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. “He has a mean streak.”

“When you say violent…”

“Not to Claire,” he says quickly, adding, “His wife,” as an afterthought.

“Oh, good,” she says, relieved. Not that she expects Ward would ever hurt her, even for a cover, but pretending he was that sort would have made this mission twice as difficult.

She’s incapable of subterfuge. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, but she’s fairly certain this mission will end in disaster.

“Just…” He licks his lips. “Look, for some specialists, the things we have to do—crossing people off, physical persuasion, interrogation…for most of us, those are necessary evils. But for some, they’re the whole point of the job—the good parts. That’s the kind of guy Tyler is.”

Ah.

“Sounds unpleasant,” she admits.

A smile flickers across Ward’s face. “He is. But not to you, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate that.”

“I just wanted you to have some warning,” he says. “And…” He looks away, addressing the rest of his sentence to a nearby ficus. “I don’t want this to change the way you look at me. The last thing I wanna do is scare you.”

Oh. Oh, dear.

Jemma bites the inside of her cheek until the urge to hug him passes. He looks so _sad_ at the thought that seeing him portray that sort of persona might affect her opinion of him, but she doesn’t think that he’d appreciate her preferred method of offering comfort to Fitz or Skye—which is to say, cuddling.

“It won’t,” she says. “I’ll admit that I might need the occasional reminder, but—I’ll do my best to keep in mind that it’s only a cover.” She beams at him. “And, if you don’t mind my saying, my best is truly excellent.”

As she hoped, he relaxes enough to return her smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says pertly, and is pleased when his smile grows. “What’s the second thing?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, like he’d forgotten. “Uh.”

“What is it?” she asks, worried. His discomfort appears to not only have returned, but increased, and she can’t imagine what he could have to say that would be worse than the conversation they’ve just finished. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says at once. “It’s just…part of the covers…being married, there’s gonna need to be some…physical contact.”

“Right, yes,” she says, feeling some sudden discomfort of her own. “I had considered that, yes.”

“We’ll have to talk about…” He shifts in place, as though holding back on the urge to run away. “We’ll have to set some boundaries, later. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Honestly, as reserved as he is, Jemma thinks _he’s_ far more likely to become uncomfortable than she. But she does appreciate the thought.

“Thank you.” She steps closer to the wall as a passing field agent nearly bumps into her. “I suppose, however, that it’s a conversation best saved for…somewhere other than the middle of a very busy corridor.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” he agrees, watching said field agent continue down the corridor. His unreadable expression becomes considering as he returns his attention to her. “But if you want to get a start on getting comfortable with it…”

“Yes?” she prompts.

He gives her a half smile and extends his uninjured hand. She hesitates, and then accepts it.

She has the most bizarre urge to blush as he laces his fingers with hers, but she thinks (or hopes) that she manages to suppress it. Their hands fit together well—which she wouldn’t have expected, considering their relative sizes—and his is quite warm. She appreciates that; she’s always cold at the Hub.

“Okay?” he asks.

She gives him her best smile. “Okay.”

They walk the rest of the way to the Logistics Corridor hand-in-hand.

It’s surprisingly—worryingly—nice.


End file.
